


Historia

by lvdym



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:27:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lvdym/pseuds/lvdym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The life of Jane Moriarty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Historia

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic, and it features fem!MorMor. This has not been beta'd, so all mistakes are my own!

Jane is thirteen, and she wants to live amongst the stars. She has been in pain for so long and she is burning, too. Slowly. From the inside out. No-one will end up escaping her wrath. She is small, yes, bird-boned, yes. Not delicate. Not fragile. Not quite resilient either. She has hurt for so long, suffered so much. This isn't a tragedy without a fall from grace, and she knows she's never had that. This, rather, is just life. She does not try and deny this.  


Jane is seven. She has a streak like her father and she devours mathematics like a starving man would devour bread: she likes things she can predict almost as much as she likes the things she can't. The formulaic has turned to mother's comfort, now. Equations morphed to a loving embrace. She takes pride in her accomplishments, and disdains those of others. She is so much more. This she knows. This she has always known. The world hasn't noticed yet: for now she will be a quiet kind of brilliant. Unsettling and intense, but in the shadows. Always in the shadows. They are like a mother too, and she hates them a little bit because of this.  


Jane is fifteen, now, and full to the brim of narcotics and ethanol and everything that will dull the fire. Pain no longer feels like pain, and she will dance long after the sun has risen. She will be in pain and she will be in trouble and she will laugh. She will pay and she will not learn. She never learnt to appreciate consequences.  


Jane is ten. Jane is ten and she has been uprooted from Dublin home to Brighton prison. Her father has a new job and a new dependancy. His own self loathing concentrated into glasses of whiskey. He misses home but lusts for his new position more, more than he loves his family or country. His true loves are power and control, Jane knows this. Maybe she has always known this. Her mother is everything Jane could have been, if this had been another world, if she had been graced a different life: birdlike, delicate, fragile. She is also silent when her husband raises his fists and curses his daughter for his own mistakes. Jane will never forgive her this.  


Jane is eleven and now she is a monster. He deserved it, that Carl Powers. She feels not an ounce of regret for what she has done, for what she is becoming. She is a demon in the shape of a girl. She knows this. Nobody else will until it is too late, until England is hers. Until the world is hers, held in her clenched fist. She will not let go. In this, perhaps, she is her father's daughter too.  


Jane is thirty-six. She is all designer clothes and carefully designed appearances: from the playful lilt of her accent to the way her lips stretch into a smirk to hair straightened of its natural wave with painstaking precision. She has been used and abused all her life long. She would have become this anyway, no matter what had befallen her. It was already in her nature. She gives herself a glance in the mirror before leaving her London flat. Later that day, she shoots herself in the head. She has regretted no atrocity she has committed and she does not regret this either.  


Jane is twenty-two has finished her undergraduate degree in Mathematics at her father's university. Jane is twenty-two and drunk off of her own accomplishments. Jane is twenty-two and stabs her father twenty-two times and her mother only thrice. She takes a shower, packs a bag and burns the house to the ground. She does not stay to watch the flames. This is all she denies herself.  


Jane is sixteen when she first sees Sébastienne Moran, first kisses her, first fucks her, first whispers seeds into her mind, then whispers more until they germinate. Jane is sixteen and Séb is not and Séb is the only being who has ever treated Jane as something mythical, as something other than an object. She has never been a thing to possess. Séb is the first person to guess behind the danger in her dark, dark eyes. She is the first person to fall in love with the demon behind the pretty pout. Jane loves her back. Or, rather, tolerates her. To Jane, that might as well be the same thing.  


Jane is nineteen and Séb is still laid in her bed as if she belongs Jane, and the past three years have convinced her that she just might. She rolls her eyes as the blonde girl recites Shakespeare in a too-soft voice for the predator she is underneath her skin. Sometimes it's all Jane can do to resist the urge to skin her and tell her 'this is who you are, this is who you were born to be, look at me, look at me, i create you.' Séb throws around lines of Macbeth as if they weigh nothing and Jane scoffs. She has no time for fictional tragedies, formulaic as they might be. Not when she has an algorithm to be penning.  


Jane is thirty-six when she makes Sébastienne watch her suicide. That's what killed her. It would always be her - nobody else could touch Séb. Jane guarded her right to Séb's life with the single-minded ferocity she showed at age twenty-two, with grasping claws and snarled lips. She is thirty-six when she leaves her empire to Séb's care. She is thirty-six when Sébastienne curses her in her grave. Alexander's kingdom was not built able to outlive him. Séb wondered why Jane would think hers would either.  


Jane is five and is made entirely of angles and fairytales. She sees her father's anger, ignores it. She was more interested in the Dragon than the Damsel in Distress. She worms her way into tight corners, cocooned inside the darkness, and she cries. She is five, and the world is already boring.  


Jane is six when she learns to wipe the tear tracks away before reentering the household. They fake their peace. They fake their happiness. They fake a lot of things. Jane is six and she knows it is often better to lie than to tell the truth, even if the lie is a sleeve swiped across eyes, nose and cheeks.  


Jane is seventeen. Sébastienne is tangled around her and in the sheets: she knows now to mould himself around Jane. The cool hilt of a knife is slowly warming in Jane's grasp. The blade is lazily dragging over Sébastienne's chest. No blood is drawn for now. Instead, she tells Séb she could kill her very easily. Séb tells her she knows. Jane does not tell her that she is already a murderer. Séb does not tell her she loves her all the more for it. There are things that don't need to be said aloud, they are fundamental truths. Both of them realise this.  


Jane is twenty-five and Sébastienne is not. They are moving into a new flat, though. Together. There are two bedrooms and both pretend to accept this. Neither of them fools the other. Séb, after nine years, is fairly sure Jane is made of stardust and ice. Or fire and ice. Maybe all three. She isn't sure it matters at all when she catches Jane's stardust-ice-fire eyes focuses on a picture. It is a man Sébastienne does not recognise, made entirely of dark curly hair, dissecting eyes and lanky frame. The way Jane looks at the picture makes her hate him on principle.  


Jane is twenty-three and has moved to Manchester. She has permanently cut ties with Sébastienne, or so she thinks. It was not as easy as Jane would like it to be. She gets a job in accounting, wondering of the appeal of being normal. Her boss is a vile man entirely too like her father. His eyes lingered, as did his hands. She'd have liked to have cut them off at the wrist, but instead she heaves a sigh and frames him for embezzlement so easily she could have probably done it in her sleep. She goes to London, and Sébastienne is waiting with patient, open arms. She knows Jane is a force of nature. She knows this is all she can do.  


Jane is sixteen and still has white powder decorating her nostril and a little on her upper lip. She collapses at Sébastienne's door, tear tracks she should have rubbed away lining the gentle curves of her cheeks. She's dressed in a red dress which is entirely too tight and short. Sébastienne appreciates this, though, and tries to kiss away the dark haired woman's pain. It is futile and both of them know this: every genius suffers. That's all there is. Jane wants to make everybody else suffer too.  


Jane is eighteen and she is curled into Sébastienne's side, occasionally stealing a little bite from Séb's food. The elder does not complain, does not speak. She's not sure she could, not when this is the first time Jane has changed for her, even in something so irrelevant. Séb pretends she does not notice the drying blood caked beneath Jane's fingernails, even as it flakes onto their laps. This is almost peace. This is as close to peace as they will get. This is all the peace they deserve. Séb does not want to know who Jane killed, it seems irrelevant. Jane is dangerous, Sébastienne knows this. And this is why Séb loves her.  


Jane is thirty-six and she breaks Sébastienne's heart with a bullet to her own brain. Séb is sure being shot herself would be less painful than this: Jane is dead. It is a truth that Séb is sure the very earth should feel. It is catastrophic and painful. Jane is dead. The world will never be the same.  


Jane is born. It is a truth the very earth should feel. It is catastrophic and painful. Jane is born. The world will never be the same.


End file.
